The Song Remains the Same (and Kind of Blue)

If you grew up in the 1970s and you loved ’70s rock as much as I did, then there is a good chance you saw the Led Zeppelin concert film, “The Song Remains the Same.” The film documents a 1973 Zeppelin concert at Madison Square Garden and played in theaters throughout the late ’70s and after. It became an almost instant cult classic, bringing my favorite rock band ever to life, with only a trip to the local theater.

I first saw the movie at a mall in Canton, Ohio, when I was in seventh grade. I watched it again last year on cable in my apartment in San Francisco, and the same scenes that resonated with me back then still moved me: Jimmy Page playing the hurdy-gurdy at a lake, and the John Paul Jones dream sequence scene during “No Quarter.” It was a funny thing to realize that at 46 years old, I’m still in many ways the same person I was then.

Like a lot of real-life experiences that influenced me, the movie ended up in one of my songs. This one is called — probably not surprisingly — “I Watched the Film ‘The Song Remains The Same.’” I recorded it last year and the track is going to be on the new Sun Kil Moon record, “Benji,” coming out next month. It’s the sixth record I’ve made under the Sun Kil Moon moniker.

Like many of my songs, the lyrics on this one start on a defined subject, then spiral into other areas and eventually return to the same place. This song reflects on some of my earliest memories, paying tribute not only to the inspiration of Led Zeppelin, but also to my grandmother, who passed away from lung cancer in 1976. During the last year of her life, the sight of her condition troubled me so much that I waited in the car during visits. I was sitting at our kitchen table in Ohio when my mom called to say she’d died. I was 9 years old, and for some strange reason I broke into hysterical laughter before running to my room and crying.

There is also a reference to a person I have deep gratitude and respect for, Ivo Watts-Russell, the founder of 4AD Records. He signed my early band Red House Painters in 1992 and gave me my start in the music business. There was a myth that he and I had a falling out when I signed to Island Records in 1995, but we have always remained friends. I visited him this past year at his home outside Santa Fe.

There is also a reference to an old friend of mine named Chris Waller, who smoked pot and fished and did the best Bon Scott impression I’ve ever heard (he could sing “Touch Too Much” and hit every note), but Chris got bumped off a moped and died when he was only 13. He was overdue to make an appearance in one of my songs, and he’s in good company on this album.

Though it’s one of my least favorite memories, there is an odd reference to a kid I sucker punched on a playground when I was in elementary school (someone dared me). The incident always bothered me, and this is my very belated apology.

The way this song drifts in and out of different realities and memories is a lot like the movies — weaving documentary, imagination and memory throughout, always coming back to the music.

The main theme of this song is melancholia, something I’ve carried around since I was a kid and probably explains why I prefer Led Zeppelin’s acoustic “Rain Song” to the blues jam “Rock ‘N’ Roll,” or why the piano ballad “Changes” is my favorite Black Sabbath song, not “Iron Man.” It’s not deep depression I’m singing about, or even necessarily a bad feeling, but a state of being (an “unspecific sadness,” as a friend of mine put it) that I believe is rooted in my early life experiences, some of which are mentioned in this song, and in others throughout the album.

The feel of this track makes me think of Judy Collins’s “Send In The Clowns” or Van Morrison’s “Beside You.” The music works at its own pace without a defined time signature, the vocals tossed off and falling wherever they land. The musicians who played on this track — including the drummer Steve Shelley of Sonic Youth and the keyboardist
Owen Ashworth of Advance Base — had a big challenge trying to lock in the rhythm of the nylon string guitar, which was intended to be in 6/8 time but didn’t exactly turn out that way. The Bay Area singer Keta Bill got choked up during her backup vocals, saying, “This song is so sad.”

This song, like the rest of the album, is a thank-you to those who have inspired me along the way, and an apology to a few, as well.

Mark Kozelek is an American singer and songwriter who has recorded more than 40 albums with his bands The Red House Painters and Sun Kil Moon, and under his own name.